


Rain

by goldandbeloved



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, D/s, Daddy Kink (implied), F/M, InThisSituationCuddlingisEdgy, Older Man/Younger Woman, Pack Dynamics, Power Exchange, Sensuality, Sibling Incest (implied), Tywin/Sansa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 08:08:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4698596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldandbeloved/pseuds/goldandbeloved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cold rain.<br/>Warmth.<br/>Visions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tommyginger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tommyginger/gifts).



The cold grey drops patter on the windowpanes as the wind lashes the diamond-paned windows; in Lannisport the merchants have already ceased trading for the day, the market stalls have rolled up their canvas and the sky and sea are chill grey steel.

In here, it’s warm as summer. The warm gold light of the fireplace, honeyed light of the beeswax tapers and the placid shimmering sea inside Tywin Lannister’s wineglass makes his study feel like a sunlit afternoon, despite anything outside. The Great Lion sighs, the slow burn of the finest Arbor Gold on his lips, the heat seeping into his bones, tasting the small measure of sweetness he allows himself.  
(Just a taste. Nothing too much. Not yet.)

Tywin Lannister allows himself a small look at his knee and feels a warmth uncurl in his belly, rising like summer heat.  
Her hair is silk over his knee,red as a battle flag, her ivory chained hands are clasped safely together and her pale face is as serene as the sleeping Maiden. Sansa sighs softly in a sweet dream since she’s used to falling asleep on knees. It’s one of her pleasures. The Great Lion runs his fingers through her hair, slowly, feeling every strand, watching it catch the light as his hand caresses, strokes, slides through the garnet waves and Sansa smiles. His hands are firm and strong, callused from years of war because anyone who thinks of Tywin Lannister simply as a bureaucrat underestimates him; strokes of the pen may win wars, but he won’t give up the chance to swing a sword, to keep himself sharp.  
For the moment, he allows himself this softness, this dream of a girl, this rosy cub.

(She presented herself to him, crawling, then nuzzling softly at his boot; the little cub paying her homage, waiting to see if the first male of the pride will accept her obeisance, her fealty, her gift. )

That’s how she’s here on a rainy afternoon dreaming her pretty dreams, resting warm against Tywin Lannister, her head on his knee, half-asleep, half-waking, purring at his strong hands, rough fingers along her hair. Tywin moves his hand to her neck, stroking, his fingertips running in soft curves, in the kind of caresses he knows women like, under the tiny flame of a curl before the alabaster column of Sansa’s neck.

(He would never do this to any whore, nor any other living woman; Tywin Lannister sneers at the gods, but this is something one might say he holds sacred. One would not say it to or about him. The Great Lion sees to that.)

Sansa breathes a rich, lush sigh as Tywin strokes her upper back, leaving serpentine trails of warmth with each touch. His hands move back to the top of her head, where he continues untangling each ruby strand, hearing her sweet little moans, soft purrs at the pleasure of it, so slow, so perfect, so warm. 

( As he strokes, Sansa feels a memory rise, unbidden: the gift of a rose and grey dress with tiny petal-pink beads on the sleeves; later that night trying to climb into her father’s lap because of the chill of the hall, longing for warmth--then being told no, being taken to the side by her mother and her Septa to say that she was too old for laps, must never sit in a man’s lap again.  
Sansa’s somehow too old to be held in Uncle Benjen’s who always smelled of frost and soft fur, too old for Grandfather Tully who wore silks, smelled of cologne and river grasses and always had a candied lemon slice for her which he’d pull from her ear--and too old for her father’s lap. Sansa had nodded, tried not to cry when she watched Arya be snuggled, her hair mussed, watched her leap from brother to brother, hear her sister shrieking with laughter when Robb opened his legs to drop her and laugh with her, watch as the little wolf fell asleep in her father’s arms just as Sansa had done the day before. Sansa had tried not to think about the scent of suede, fir balm, the safe warm circle of his arms, the rumble of his chest as she watched. Sansa sat with a chill creeping into her hands and wished all night that she hadn’t gotten the dress, that maybe if she gave it back she could be cuddled again. But she was a lady now. A lady.) 

Sansa feels a tear come forth from her eye, fall on to Tywin’s knee. He looks at her, still tracing circles on her scalp, his green and gold eyes wise, fierce, looking into hers--

and in that sphere of gold as the rain hisses on the driftwood fire, he scoops her up into his own lap, like a king in a beautiful song. Tywin presses her head to his chest, one strong arm around her, looks to make sure she’s comfortable, then returns to stroking her hair, making sure to work out any knots. Sansa closes her eyes, her cheek resting near Tywin’s heart, feeling the soft nap of velvet which she knows full well is crimson, the firmness of bronze tanned leather, beneath it his heated skin, a scent of dark resins, myrrh, damenorops, black ink and the spice that her lions all share, all different, all beautiful. She snuggles and breathes in deeply, with a happy slow twitch of her hips because it feels good.  
(It doesn’t matter that she knows there’s a tingling along her body, a flush of delight at being held close by such a man, a soft silkiness between her legs. It’s all right here.)

Tywin grips her a little tighter as she twists her hips, growls softly, taps on her wrist to make her be still. There is no need for words-- only her warmth and his, her radiance made brighter by reflecting his--Sansa is warm from the inside out, half drunk on the joy of it and the gentle scratching of the Great Lion’s fingertips along her scalp. She purrs delicately, letting him caress her, the littlest, sweetest one--and it is at his pleasure that her hands are chained. Safe. Not to be stolen or taken but made to mind like the smallest lioness in her pride. She likes it when her lions do this. Safe.

It is smooth as sunlit fur, as looping and lovely as elaborate ink-work; this blushing, her cheek against his chest, the warmth tickling between her legs, the comfort and sweetness of Tywin Lannister’s hands in her hair, on her body, acknowledging her. Appreciating her.  
Warm and sweet and pleasurable and she knows she’s a good cub.

Tywin feels Sansa’s breathing soften and lower as she’s in his lap, stroking her with the flat of his palm, hair to lower back again and again, along her arms, fingertip touches on her cheek as she breathes warm in his lap, the tiny Lannister princess chained and sleeping in the Great Lion’s embrace.

Tywin allows himself a small, satisfied rumble at Sansa resting softly in his lap. He breathes in her scent-- ghost of sage and honey soap, the indefinable scent of clean, sweet girl--a bit of orris root, a bit of delicate sweat, a deep swirl of womanly musk rising within and there’s the soft, honeyed scent of her flames of hair spread out over her shoulders, over his hands. He shifts slightly to lift the glass of Arbor Gold to his lips, drink in a heat that is only a pale twin to the heat he holds close. The Great Lion lets himself look at her; delicate pearl hands set off by the gold of her chain, the rose-red and cherry of her dress, rumpled up from her clinging to reveal an ankle in a saffron-dyed stocking, the curve of her breast, pale with a blush, rising and falling as she sleeps.

The Great Lion growls softly at that stocking. He snarls low at the thought of the bare ivory flesh above it his own flesh already awakened, stiff from her tiny writhes and snuggles. But that’s for later, for fingers and teeth, the pleasure of squeals and moans and a drop or two of blood; now’s the time for the pleasure of her in his lap, the littlest cub soft and warm with her pearly teeth, her tiny claws. 

Tywin looks at his russet cub and sees the future, strong, bright golden, with a warm, steady ruby heart. He finds it good. Like her. 

(For once, the twins have exceeded his expectations. He won’t tell them of course, but he’ll take pleasure in these afternoons, this little beauty of a lioness.)

Setting down his glass, knowing that he is safe in his den, the Great Lion curls the little cub’s head under his own, feels her nuzzle into him as he rubs his head against hers. While he does not smile, he allows himself a sigh of satisfaction and lets his own eyes close, drowsing in the heat and beauty of the fire, His mind is on the cub, the days to come, of teaching her to hunt, to prowl, to conquer, the days her own tiny cubs will grow strong and bright to be enthroned, the first of their names. A dynasty.

Sansa stirs in her sleep and he nuzzles back, stroking at her garnet hair. They drowse in sweetness and splendor with the waves below and the rain above and in the hissing of the flames the whispers of all that is to come.

**Author's Note:**

> NB: While this is somewhere in the universe of _The Wolf-Girl Who Longed for the Sun_ and _Lone Lion and Cub: Hellbent_ it is somewhere outside these narratives--or perhaps it is somewhere within all of them.


End file.
